


Rigel's Room

by highwayblockparty (Oxygen)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BIG ZOMNIC manservant(s), Exposition in Chapter 1 Robot dicks in Chapter 2, Junkenstein is fucking SICK and TIRED of writing his Mechanical Engineering thesis - Freeform, Junkenstein's Revenge, Other, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, robots with safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 12:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17849735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxygen/pseuds/highwayblockparty
Summary: Rigel explores the near invisible ridges and seams of his tights, looking for something, maybe nothing yet. Jamison skips over a short, blocked out portion in the text.“/Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which Monsieur Waldman entered shortly after. He-- He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence./”His voice wavers as Rigel becomes increasingly more fascinated with the fabric of his tights, and the flesh underneath.





	1. Little Dipper

**Author's Note:**

> HEY THERE! Here's some Junkenstein without Plot. A subject that really makes my heart soar, sort of like how exposed pipes in buildings do.
> 
> About the language surrounding genitalia and undergarments... I use words like briefs! Or dicks, or cocks. It's ambiguous when describing other stuff... like utilitarian enough to let you know what's going on, but no anatomical terms.
> 
> There is insertion, robot... creampies... and general, consensual rough-housing at the end of the second chapter too. Just a heads up for those who this may not sit well with!

Winds buffet him as he runs through the streets of Adlersbrunn.

The winds buffet his coat, ill-fitting and draping as it is, buffet his hair, static in his ears, pendulum pulls and jerks and shoves in his steps. They-- the winds, the winds, the winds-- barely graze against the guard’s tailored suit. Navy. Thick. Fine fabric against the hazard metal gates, jagged, black.

The sky is tumultuous, on the precipice of rain and winter and night.

The guard to the Lord's court lets him in with half a care, his face a familiar one. In and out always at bizarre hours, the man.

Old oil lights illuminate the town and the castle and the courtyard he enters unreliably. Faint, old lights, faint, old technology.

Old technology, old ground. The cobblestone streets leading into a cobblestone courtyard and a cobblestone everything kill him. He’s tired. Done. His foot aches and his back protests and his prosthetic leg stubs on every ledge of every rock and _everything_ pisses him off. This unnavigable world, nebulous bureaucracy, everything.

Everything, everything, everything all at once. The courtyard is empty, so he finds a stupid place at the corner of _some_ somewhere and lays, just barely caring enough about his bag full of edits upon edits of proposals and applications and-- most of all-- his under-finished thesis.

He just needs someone to give him something better to fucking think about.

 

“Sir?”

It startles him, First the voice, then the hum of the machine.

“Ah, Morris.”

The torso hovers above him, a rolling purr of an engine almost indistinguishable from the roar in his ears, probably why Morris managed to sneak up on him.

Heatwaves, what looks like it anyway, exhaust, rippling airglow fires-- they all keep him afloat. It’s mostly harmless, mostly heatless, some lights and fog just for show. Doesn’t want his processor to throttle.

“You’re lying on the ground?”

“Yes, I am,” Jamison rubs his neck, burnt out. It’s that tone, the tone that means _you wanted this module for Morris to investigate, to ask questions, questions surrounding hospitality, and he needs answers to decide what to do next._

A robot can be a human, or humanlike. A robot can think ahead of him, and have prejudices. Interrupt him at every turn with wanton, cruel actions, create unnavigable worlds. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe it doesn’t have to, like Morris’ Little Dipper module here, who’s ready to help.

Ready to learn.

Maybe that’s what he needs today, after weeks and months and years of not having it at all.

 

“I’m tired. Tired enough to ask you to carry me to the laboratory, even if that’s not a _regular thing_ to ask.” He says the last part with a sting. Maybe it is regular somewhere else, with someone else.

Cloudy visions and the frustration of the day fill him, but he banishes it all. No more, not now, no more worlds like this.

Morris thinks, with a delicate wavering of the lights he calls eyes. Now-- Jamison’s sure he’s programmed some filler words in there, to make sure the stoic silence won’t intimidate, won’t confuse other people.

Morris doesn’t use them with him, though. Morris understands. Morris is quiet against the rolling, harsh, jagged geometry and architecture and air. The most offensive part of him are the bright plumes of fire, his false fire, and exhaust.

“Sir, If I may suggest-- I... can bring you to your dormitory instead. It may be wise to rest.” His voice is deep, and harmonious, and easy on the ears. The invitation is open.

“No, no, uh-- the laboratory.” Cold, it’s cold. “We can stop by the dormitory for coats, then the laboratory. I have to finish something.”

His thesis is woefully neglected, but some of his interviews have been going well. Resumes for different places. Proposals. Things. Things, things, things. He’ll see how far he can skim over them before collapsing into an uneasy slumber.

Morris extends his hands. Jamison awkwardly clambers into them from his spot on the floor, backpack throwing off his balance. Morris compensates

“Are the corridors empty?” Jamison asks, hushed, hurriedly, as they enter the unusually desolate halls. It hits him that this-- despite his exhaustion, despite everything-- would look silly. In the arms of a _toyish_ , mechanical beast, bridal style.

“A majority of the personnel are at the Lord’s banquet-- the west wing of the building is entirely vacant.”

“No wandering drunkards?”

“No wandering drunkards.”

 

So, his dormitory it is. Wordlessly navigating the west wing leads to a cold alcove.

A satellite to his laboratory, unfortunately.

It’s in terrible form, he realizes as he skims through a default drawer for his softest knit cardigans, for turtlenecks, for leggings, for anything. Weathered heather hues reflect the barren gray walls of the room he should take more advantage of.

There’s a cot in the kitchen area by his laboratory, and a sofa as well. Shower too, the works. Well used, improperly used. It’s bad practice to sleep where he works, to eat where he works, to wash himself clean of the day where he works, he know it. No separation, no distinction, no compartmentalization.

The quiet light that filters into this satellite room has an effect on him.

Soothing. Mellow.

He’ll put the room to use tonight, but as the quiet light has effects on him, good ones, so does the much needed solitude. The cardigan too, it calms his tense shivers, his aching muscles, his jagged bones, his raw mind, and he’s ready for just a few more edits on this or that paper.

Maybe more, maybe more. The Rigel Module sits at the back of his mind.

Maybe only that.

He awkwardly hops into tights, layers on more jackets, becomes this bundle, a methodical layering of brown jackets over heather gray cardigans over white labcoats and the darkest undergarments.

The world becomes habitable again, mostly.

Jamison sits on the edge of a bed not far from the drawer, recouping. Shadows pass on the walls from the outside, minor variations in light and hues.

Chips and hairline fractures run across the wall, unsightly for such an expensive building. He doesn’t think of this room in contrast to the other rooms, doesn’t think about the implications of such an unkempt place given to him and him alone.

He draws deeper into the swaddle, ears covered. It muffles miscellaneous sound from the outside, bands playing at the banquet, trees swaying, the creaks in the building and wind howling through crevices in the metal or stone. As the cardigan muffles sound, so does the white noise hum of Morris’ engines.

Jamison peeks up at Morris again after a while.

Morris extends the invitation to hop into his arms. Before he does, Jamison rests a hand in those metal palms, steady, waiting. It’s for him and him alone, this gesture, because-- Well, Morris can understand it, maybe.

In his Sirius module, Jamison knows he can, a small world dedicated to compiling little gestures and moments and memories. He strokes the palms of the Morris’ hands with his thumbs and it hurts, a dull ache deep within him, so the Rigel Module crawls forward. It crawls forward in his mind, this desire, with its pointed metal claws.

Rigel, Rigel, Rigel.

He just needs someone to give him _something_ better to think about.

Maybe that’s what he needs today.

Morris waits, quiet as he ruminates, as he slips away.

Manmade surprises are good, they can be good, they can be terrifying, and they can be distant. Many are close to home, creating unnavigable paths and hateful worlds, but others are just-- just so-- distant, and these surprises are the ones he yearns for the most, and-- and cuts up and scrambles and interlocks and encodes and goodbye, they’re gone, he’s angry and confused and scattered and lost after a day and and a week and a month and a year and a life of… of--

Morris mirrors him, rubbing the back of his hand, a tense hand now, digging nails and tight flesh, with his cool metal thumb. It makes him hop off of the cyclical path.

He can’t speak to Morris about this.

Can’t interface with the learning modules like he did in the courtyard, through voice. Can’t engrave or fix or study the events out loud, that small action, the brush of his thumb. Looking closer at it, speaking it into existence, makes a thought and feeling so much more real-- a thought he interlocks and encodes while focusing on utility and palliative pleasure in his robots.

A thought and feeling reserved for people, not for his research.

But, that aside, the mirroring-- is it good for Little Dipper? The best for this module, focused more on hospitality? Is it subtle and calming, or invasive, are his thoughts spilling over and clouding his judgement? He taps the side of Morris’ head, taking note of the time for when he looks back at the logs.

Not now. He’ll rewrite Morris later if he has to, but he can’t bear the thought of losing this gesture at the moment.

Nothing in science and art should be precious, he knows it, he knows it, he _knows_ it, but _this_ is, and he hates it.

 

Rigel, his pet project, crawls and saunters and scurries like a insect, picking up the pace. After a running head start it takes a violent leap, latching onto the forefront of his brain.

It’s terrible, he knows it, terrible like his procrastinated thesis and nights on the sofa at the laboratory, but it’s all he can think of right now.

Rigel.

“Take me...” Jamison begins slowly. Morris listens as his eyes bubble and flicker and waver in and out, like the lights of a modular synthesizer, taking in different inputs.

“... To the laboratory, please.”

_Please_. The word is submissive, and there’s a cloud enveloping him, a hill he slides down.

Morris doesn’t register it like that now, but he knows Rigel will.

Rigel.

Rigel.

_Rigel._

So, Morris sweeps him to the lab.

No work will get done tonight.


	2. Rigel

Morris tidies his bags, laying out proposals and fetching relevant books, books and folders and pages from previous sessions, in an attempt to be helpful. Jamison asks him to kindly put them away, but to fetch him a black book resting up top the library stand.

He busies himself with a cabinet of curiosities, of wires, of parts, of _modules_.

The Rigel Module is large, larger than the rest. In part, it’s an older project from when he couldn’t make these components as small. It’s also been built upon, a long term amalgamation, a long term fascination, a sprawling complex of rooms in a big house he calls the module.

It proudly hides in the furthest corner of the drawer. Not like anyone else would know what it has in store, really, or how to put it in Morris. It’s all nondescript and unlabeled. Regardless, _something_ makes him bury it like a dirty secret.

“Morris,” he says, too hollow, too quiet, too raspy, even in the sound-proof room. “Need you to open up.”

Morris powers down, mostly, besides the essentials, and the back of his chassis blooms open. There, a village awaits him-- a collection of module houses, little streets and alleyways of copper, undeveloped gaps of circuitboard, and interstates of wiring.

Little Dipper needs to go. He plucks him from the board, taking care to place him back where he belongs in the cabinet. Rigel goes in, and Jamison would like to say it was a little more ceremonious, but really-- he’s rushing now. He wants this.

Needs this.

He knows what he wants.

He hurries, stumbles, switching out the internals into a different chassis. A limbed one, many, _many_ limbs, tall, no exhaust, corners easy on the flesh, features inside.

As the chassis sews itself back shut, Rigel awakes from his slumber.

 

Rigel eyes the book, _the_ book on a cheap aluminum table from the surgeon’s campus, repurposed for a general, ambiguous, amorphous use.

Eyes him.

“Sit.”

Rigel rests his hands, soft silicone, by his thighs. It’s not an invitation, it’s an order.

The low, serious voice-- not menacing, maybe commanding, just no nonsense-- is a piece of him. Not him, exactly, but Rigel _is_ of his making. His play, his stage, his story, his orchestration, which he is also an actor of.

He doesn’t tire of returning to it. He’s put a lot of hard fucking work into getting out there, acclimating himself to a world he’s a terrible player of, wants to stop being a _player_ of and just _live_ in, but--

Sometimes, just sometimes, he deserves to return.

The book-- a hardcover-- has been taped until it’s unrecognizable, no title, no author. Black electrical tape’s been used, making it a bizarre and imposing swath of night, with crisscross beveled geometry on its surface.

The pages have been eviscerated too, then reintroduced, annotated, and shuffled around to his desire. They have unique geometry, unique symbols, that Rigel can easily read, can easily be cued in by.

Rigel begins and ends with him, but what happens in between is out of his control.

At his behest, Jamison comes to him. Before he can sit, Rigel raises a hands.

“The coat. Off.”

“It’s cold,” Jamison mutters. It’s true. He’d like to compromise on this, at the very least.

Rigel is fair, for the most part. Fair when it counts. His insides flair, a brighter, warmer blue.

“Then come here.”

He obliges, going the extra length to take off the cardigan.

With the thin labcoat fabric, Rigel’s heat bleeds through into his back. The hands too, they rest on his thighs, tights peeking through the fabric hitching up. The weight is somewhere between a cage and an embrace-- they’re in a neutral stance, but the metal is _heavy_.

Heavy and good.

The damp cold of the laboratory hits him, mingling with the heat, cutting through what is in _essence_ his exposed legs. It sets him on a good edge.

“Let’s pick up from where we left off,” Rigel speaks, guiding his hands to the book. Hands on his thighs, hands cupping his, hands hovering elsewhere.

Jamison finds the passage he wants, and clears his throat as quietly as he can.

 

 _“...With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted by my extreme youth--”_ he begins, and Rigel raises an unused hand to his jaw. Angles his face away from the book, pinching his cheeks. It’s a gentle gesture for the most part, and yet his jaws are squeezed open.

The machine presses the side of his face on his own glass shield, one he vies to look closer into.

“Louder,” Rigel orders. He lets him return to his book, but not before resting his hands at Jamison’s throat. He swallows, Adam’s apple thrusting against the silicone hand.

It’ll catch everything. Every word, every waver, every stutter. Jamison forges on.

 _“...With-- with a confusion of ideas only to be accounted by my extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters,”_ he breathes in, _“I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists._ ”

Rigel, flush against him, flush everywhere, torso, hands, neck, rubs the flesh of his thumb where it meets the book. It’s impossible for Jamison to ignore his presence.

“ _...Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought immortality and power--_ ” Jamison squints at some misprinted characters, a momentary pause.

“ _Such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of--_ a- _ah--”_

As soon as Rigel’s hands slide deeper underneath the slit in his labcoat, they slide out. He whines, and for that, Rigel _tsks_.

“Everything in due time.” The machine tells him. It isn’t a warning yet, just a statement. As Jamison returns to the text, so do Rigel’s hands return to his thighs.

 

“ _The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth._

_“Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in become acquainted with the localities, and the principal residents in my new abode.”_

Rigel explores the near invisible ridges and seams of his tights, looking for something, maybe nothing yet. Jamison skips over a short, blocked out portion in the text.

_“Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which Monsieur Waldman entered shortly after. He-- He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence.”_

His voice wavers as Rigel becomes increasingly more fascinated with the fabric of his tights, and the flesh underneath.

_“His person was short but remarkably erect, and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of learning--”_

Jamison breathes sharply in as Rigel finds something he wants, maybe, less skimming and more pinching against the fabric. He resumes hurriedly.

_“--pronouncing with fervor the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:_

_“_ ‘ _The ancient teachers of this science,’ said he,_ ‘ _promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera--_

_“but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles.’”_

 

Rigel finds some satisfactory purchase, and with a sudden, inward jerk of his hands, the tights rip open. Junkenstein gasps-- did he-- had he-- he did _not_ teach him that!

“My tights!” He exclaims, breaking character. “Why, _you--_ ”

Rigel laughs, tinny, amused. “What about them? You can sew, can you not?”

“That’s… that’s true,” he agrees, begrudgingly.

“Then, all is good.” Rigel seems to finish, but the hand around his throat tightens.

“You’ll want to watch the tone, _boy_.”

Oh.

_Oh._

A titter threatens to escape, to bubble out of his lips. The wetness of his slit against the fabric of his briefs is unavoidable now, as is Rigel’s heat, Rigel’s hands, Rigel’s grip, Rigel-- Rigel’s...

“Continue.”

So, he does.

Rigel is firm in his ways. Firm, not cruel, and like the curveballs he throws him with the ripping of his tights, Jamison finds curious edits in the texts.

Infinitesimal and grandiose all at the same time. Done in the steady, mechanical hand of a machine, words have been crossed out, and suitable replacements careted back in.

A machine can think ahead of him, and it does not have to be with prejudice.

“ _‘The philosophers penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how he works in his hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have--”_

Jamison’s breath hitches as Rigel slides against the inside of his thigh, barely brushing against the muscles of pelvis. He’s getting painfully hard now, not just wet.

“‘ _\--they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows._ ’”

Jamison feels Rigel’s forearm shift, sees delicate ripples underneath the fabric of his labcoat’s long ends. Tools emerge, tools slide around, tools he can’t see, and Rigel makes his choice.

A hand, one resting on his own, points at a part from a passage.

“From here,” Rigel orders, and Jamison hears a switch being flipped. It’s a low hum, one he can hear more than he can feel, but-- fuck, he writhes, resisting the urge to rut up against the vibrator-- no, _vibrators_?-- because he knows that’s going to get them removed.

“I couldn’t quite enjoy the passage, why, with all of your _pauses_.” Rigel explains. With a hand, he tilts his jaw back down to the book, Jamison unaware of how it had gone astray.

He has to keep his voice steady. Steadier than he has been, because it’s been unsatisfactory. He can do this.

“Yes, Rigel--”

Ah, _fuck_.

“ _Rigel?_ ” The machine asks, incredulous. He shuts off the vibrators, holding Jamison tight against his chassis.

“ _Sir!_ ” Jamison amends. The tables have turned.

“ _How_ do you address me?” Rigel asks, unsatisfied. The hand around his jaw, the hand now around his neck gets tighter, and it’s so fucking good, but heat pools up in his groins and he needs-- he needs something, he needs to start feeling more, so--

 _“Sir!”_ He chokes out, begging, groveling, but Rigel doesn’t let up his tight grip.

“That’s right. I’m going to forget what you said,” he says, abruptly sliding a tethered vibrator into him. It’s small, but it’s something new, and good, and he gasps. Rigel’s many hands keep him pinned down.

“Now, what do you say?” Rigel says, low and dangerous against his ears.

“Thank you!” He cries. Impossibly, the machine holds him even tighter.

“Louder!”

“Thank you, sir! _Thank you!”_

 

Rigel lets him go, and the loss of support makes him collapse, forces an exhale from his lungs. Soon, his many hands find their purchases again.

Jamison's eyes dance around, dizzy, aligning back to the text of the page. Rigel’s pressing something else, another vibrator, against his cock, low, quiet, and he can feel the machines own hard-on through the back of his labcoat.

“ _These philosophers,_ ” He begins, voice thick and threatening to catch, legs trembling, ” _whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles._

 _“They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how he works in his hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have--”_ Jamison hisses as the cold hands on his jaw crawl into his hot mouth, tongue massages by an index and middle finger, slipping in and out of their grasp. Rigel cranks up the vibrator.

He speaks around the fingers, and they finds a comfortable place in his mouth soon enough. “- _-they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breath. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”_

Rigel rocks against him now, pronouncedly. He begins to unbutton his lab coat, maneuvering around to lift off his undershirt, holding onto the book for him. Fingers fuck him through the tear in his tights, pushing aside his briefs, stretching him further, pumping against the vibrator and his walls.

Jamison groans, eyes rolling backwards and out again, focusing on the dancing letters, the blurry text, focusing on not spilling over, because he knows Rigel’s nowhere near done.

_“Such were the professor’s words-- r-rather let me say the words of the fate-- enounced to destroy me.”_

With that, Rigel lifts him up, slipping his cock into him.

He bottoms out, then fucks him slow, languidly rutting against the vibrator that presses against a sensitive stretch of nerves within him. Jamison pants, tongue licking against the fingers grabbing his jaw from the inside of his mouth, muscles tight as he keeps himself far away from the edge of no return.

He forges on.

“ _As he went on, I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one, the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after--_ ” Rigel lifts him up further, pushing him forward, sliding his bare stomach against the table so he can fuck Jamison into it.

Jamison has to maneuver his hands to keep a hold on the book, his chin and oversensitive torso sliding against the cold metal. It takes every ounce of willpower and concentration he can muster to not-- to not lean his forehead against the metal and curl into himself as Rigel fills him up, as Rigel keeps the vibrator against his cock, as Rigel uses him as his fucktoy.

“You’re not _done_ ,” Rigel warns him, wrapping hair around his hands, in preparation to pull should he try to rest. Jamison picks up where he left off.

“ _Chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose--_ ” He stumbles over his words, his tongue now, but he’ll crawl to the finish line if he has to.

“ _So much had been done, exclaimed my soul-- more, far more will I achieve._ ”

 

Rigel pulls out abruptly with a _pop!_ , vibrator spilling out. Jamison’s dick meets the painfully cold air, and he cries out, confused-- The absence of friction and the tension of his thick cock spreading his walls is just _gone_ , and, and--

Rigel flips him over with his many, many arms and it’s-- ah--

Rigel’s chassis is nothing but smooth angles, seamless angles where he can afford it, _strong--_ the metal fills his entire field of sight, and his face-- it’s a smooth, black glass, intimidating, eyeless.

“Look at me,” Rigel orders. “I want you to look at me as I fuck you.”

Jamison trains his half-lidded eyes on him, pupils scattering and blown, book discarded. “Yes, sir-- ah, _fuck!_ ”

Rigel eases the head of his cock back in, and it’s significantly more bevelled than before-- all of him is more bevelled, it seems, Jamison catching a glimpse of the ridges and the large, mechanism-filled knot at the base of his cock. A hand jerks his head back to the black glass face.

_“Eyes on me.”_

Rigel said _eyes_ , not anything else, so his free hands wander down to his suddenly neglected cock. Rigel grabs them too, pinning them above his head.

“You don’t get to touch yourself. Only I do.”

He nearly spills over then, nearly fucking cums around the head of his cock with those words. Nearly. Nearly. Nearly.

Rigel leans his head close in, pressing his forehead against his.

“ _You don’t get to pleasure yourself_ ,” Rigel repeats, elaborating, and the irony of it all make him laugh. It’s a heady sound, deep from his chest and whatever air’s left in there, breaking into a pant.

_“You’re here for my amusement.”_

There’s hands all over him, around his neck, on his ribcage, thumbs brushing against sensitive muscles, grabbing-- grabbing hot flesh, his torso, his stomach, keeping his legs spread open so he can fill him up. It’s a complete gridlock, no escape, the perfect cage of his own design-- and with that thought, Rigel thrusts into him.

He pushes the vibrator knot against his hole, easing, easing, _easing_ in, until it pops into him. Jamison groans as he continues to thrust into him, despite there being very space left to move around in. The knot fucks him from the inside, ridges and bevels catching against his walls, really, _truly_ filling him up.

He lets out desperate, incoherent little noises, collecting his tongue and teeth and sounds into words.

“S-- sir-- I--

_“Don’t fucking cum.”_

Rigel presses his pelvic muscles down, compressing the tight walls even further. Another hands returns to rubbing his cock, and everything’s coming to a head.

He whimpers.

“Hmm? Speak up,” Rigel orders.

“I-- need-- I need to come, I--” Jamison clenches his teeth, dancing on the edge.

“Not yet.”

“I’m so fucking close,” he tells this fucking… this paradoxically _disobedient_ robot, who won’t listen to him in the best and worst way possible. “So-- fucking close, _please, I can’t--_ ”

“Not **yet**. I know you can hold out on me.”

Jamison swallows. He nods, compromising as Rigel strokes his hair.

_“Good boy.”_

_Good boy._

Jamison gasps.

That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. The words take a hold of him, so much for holding out. His vision fills with stars as he cries out, seizing around Rigel.

Rigel’s not done with him yet, though. He shoves silicone fingers in his mouth, choking his ecstatic cries, fucking his mouth as he thrusts into him. Pushes his head back against the metal table violently.

He’s red-hot and overstimulated and writhing but it’s good, it’s perfect, he’s lost in it and he’s not ready to go quite yet-- so he lets Rigel come undone inside of him at his own pace, riding out his own climax around him.

Rigel swivels his hips into him, sweeping his walls, ridges at the base bumping up against his overstimulated cock.

“You came _before_ me,” Rigel says, matter-of-factly. The fingers in his mouth go deeper, filling him up, choking him out. He hyperventilates against them, drooling, lightheaded, putty, feeling so fucking _good_ in Rigel’s hands.

“You came before me when I told you not to.”

The hands around his neck and torso and pinned down hands pummel him against the metal rhythmically, scrubbing and dragging him across the smooth, cold surface.

“What _ever_ should I do with you?” Rigel asks one-sidedly, leaning in. For just a moment he stops thrusting into him, and his forearms shift again, taking inventory.

“Should I keep you in the pillory for the night? Hang you above the saddle and keep you on the edge?” Impossibly, he gets closer, filling his vision with night and scattered reflections of the room.

“Should I fuck your mouth while I’m at it? Should I choke you out on my cock while you’re on that saddle?”

_“Or would that get you off?”_

All Jamison can think is static, so Rigel snorts like a beast and resumes.

 

It feels like an ironworks, the heat of the forge and metal banging against metal. It feels good, so good, mind numbingly good, until it doesn’t, until the shift is too long and the clanging is too brutal and Rigel’s actions are too merciless and out of sync with what he needs.

A series of colors and and stars and temperatures and constellations flash in his head-- gradients from good to warning to pain to end, even wordless signals, wordless ends, and he selects the best one.

“Orion,” he chokes out, squeezing his pinned down hands six times for good measure.

Everything feels slick, slicker than before, easier-- there’s an anesthetic quality to whatever Rigel’s done in response. Jamison can’t remember what he’d programmed here, some concoction, some tempo, can’t remember in the thick of it, but it mellows him down from the inside.

Rigel doesn’t stop, but he does ease down significantly. His movements are rhythmic in a new sense, subtler, a deep, good vibrations in his worn out muscles and bones.

Markedly quiet now, markedly on the same level.

Soon, the machine catches up with him. Rigel goes in as deep as he can before filling him up with a thick, warm liquid. It threatens to spill out around the knot, just a bit does as his mechanical body spasms and jerks, a glowing, neon, aqua concoction.

Rigel curls around him just as he arches into him, flesh against metal. He breathes in heavily, vulnerable as all of the hands still dance and grab onto his sensitive skin.

Stars fill his vision like the night sky.

They lay like this for a while, Rigel careful not to collapse and crush him under his own weight. Though the machine has no eyes, he knows they’re closed, idling, recovering. Curled like a canopy over him, or armor, with how he holds Jamison close against him, unmoving, still inside of him.

It begins to get cold again, even with the warmth of the machine.

Jamison wiggles his fingers loose from Rigel’s grasp, giving his forearm four taps. Rigel slowly comes to attention, _eyes_ open, processing.

“Need you out of me,” he says, sheepishly. “I want to head to my dormitory.”

Rigel gives him a cursory glance, figuring out how to go about this best. Giving his hips a few gentle, angled moves, the knot comes out, easier than it came in, the sharp cold of the room making him hiss.

The lubricant spills out of him, obnoxious and bright, and he groans.

“Ugh. I’m gonna need a bath.” He drags his hands across his face. Fuck. The hissing of the pipes already gets to him. At least he doesn’t have to get up early tomorrow.

“I can bring you there,” Rigel offers-- is it Rigel? Or a remnant of Little Dipper? The thought leaves before it even really gets there because he can’t-- it doesn’t-- it doesn’t fucking matter right now, to differentiate between make and model, human or machine.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

Rigel carries him carefully to the shower by the laboratory, and along the way, Jamison admires the tubing across the walls. The dense patterns of potable water, purified water, sewers to the outside, sewers for heavy metals, red, black, white, yellow, copper, painted, everything, they swim in his eyes.

The shower is barebones, made with the same clinical linoleum and metal as the ones from the big hospital downtown. Same supplier, after all.

Rigel lets the water run, waiting for it to heat up. Just before he rests him in, satisfied with the temperature, he gives him a look.

“I can take the tights, and the prostheses,” he offers. Ah, it’d really be like entering the shower with his socks on, wouldn’t it?

“Mm,” Jamison answers, affirmative, grateful. Being set down on the dresser by the tub, Jamison unhooks his leg first, then eases out of the tights, and finally unhooks his his arm. Rigel takes them off of his hands with his many arms.

He takes care to cap the nerve interfaces, and with that, Jamison maneuvers himself into the tub.

It’s quite deep, rising up nearly to his nose. Long enough too, a perfect fit for him.

Enveloped in the warmth, he dips his head below so just his eyes peek up from the surface. From his vantage point in this little summertime lake or sea, He watches Rigel leave.

The machine’s off to do who-knows-what until Jamison calls upon him, but it’s not before he sees his biceps shifting, like his forearms had done before. Out springs a utility rolodex, a collection of tools for small fixes and loose screws and gas leaks and most notably, a sewing kit.

Jamison smiles.


End file.
